Salvation
by kmh11
Summary: After a riding accident leaves Mary in a coma with an uncertain future, Matthew is there to care for her just like she was there to care for him. AU set late in season two.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: So I have officially taken the plunge and written my first fanfiction! This idea has been haunting my thoughts for ages, so I finally decided to do something about it. The story is an AU that takes place after Lavinia's death, but before the CS. I have to give the world's biggest shout out to La Donna Ingenua, who encouraged me to write this story, and helped me shape it into what you are about to read. Here's hoping you enjoy it!_

* * *

It could have happened to anyone, really- even an experienced rider such as herself- but she was already being reckless. She shouldn't have gone out in the first place, not in her current state. She was hurt and confused, but more than anything, she was _mad_. And if she was honest, she was madder at _herself_ than anyone else. She could write a book filled with her regrets, but she still had to live with them. She would go back and shake the girl she once was if she could; the one who was so haughty and foolish, so stubbornly proud. She would warn that girl that should her attitude not change, she could ruin things forever. That certain things, once done, could not be undone; once broken, could not be fixed. For now she wished so much that something, _anything_ would feel normal again. But what was more normal for Mary than a ride around the grounds on her beloved horse?

The weather was unpredictable at best, and the ground was soft from the previous days of rain. Lynch had strongly advised against her riding out, especially alone, but she dismissed his fears with assurances of her competence as a rider. As she pushed Diamond harder, and he ran faster, she thought for a moment that she really could run away from it all: from Richard, from Downton, from her obligations…from her feelings for Matthew. Oh Matthew…what a mess they were. She wondered vaguely if they really were cursed as he had said, but she shook the notion quickly from her thoughts. She shut her eyes tight for just a moment and felt utterly free. But when she opened them up it was all still there. She hadn't run away from anything. _Cursed indeed_. She was so tired of everyone telling her what she could or should do- what was supposedly best for her. Why did no one seem to understand that she could make her own decisions? Why did they all insist on offering their insipid advice? As the first drops of rain began to fall, she thought for a moment about going back, before pressing her heels firmly into Diamond's sides and urging him forward. At least he didn't seem to doubt her capabilities. Even if she couldn't distance these thoughts from her mind, she could physically distance herself from their origin.

She'd ridden this way dozens of times before, so she thought little in the way of caution. They were flying down the trail now, as fast as they were able. But the mud on the ground was as thick as pudding, and ever so slippery. The rain was stinging her skin as she raced against it, which was first unpleasant, but then exhilarating. The weather seemed to be getting worse, but she knew that she only had to circle around for a few more minutes before she would be able to see the house again, so she did not slow her pace. She certainly wasn't in a hurry to get back, but even the thought of slowing down felt like a resignation; like she would be letting her problems win- proving to them that there was one more thing that she could not do. She was absolutely covered in dirt and grime, and she smiled to herself thinking of the reception she would get upon returning to the house. Her mother would certainly scold her for being so careless. Anna would look at her knowingly, but say nothing. Sometimes, especially lately, Mary found herself wishing that bounds of class were not such a barrier between them. Anna had been a true friend and ally to Mary, but there was so little she could do, at least publicly, to show her appreciation. They could never be friends socially, however much they may wish to be. How unjust it all was. Poor Anna didn't even have the luxury of trying to escape her own (now numerous) demons on horseback.

As Mary rounded a sharp corner, she was just distracted enough by these thoughts that she didn't notice the tree that had recently fallen casualty to a storm. Diamond, however, did notice, and the horse came to a jarring stop. If Mary had been paying attention, they could have easily made the jump. But she wasn't. Diamond had stopped himself in plenty of time, but the momentum of his former pace to his currently suspended state had sent Mary sailing from his back. When she had not returned in time for tea, and especially in such weather, it was decided that Robert and Matthew, who had been animatedly discussing the recent progress made with the cottages, would go out and search for her. They started at the stables, where they discovered a muddy Diamond, still saddled up, with no sign of Mary. Panic set in immediately, but Matthew had enough sense to follow the freshly laid tracks left by the horse in the mud. He sent Robert back to the house to phone for the doctor," just in case".

When Matthew did eventually stumble upon Mary, he was utterly unprepared for what he saw. She was on the ground, covered from head to foot in mud, looking utterly lifeless. Her riding cap was some distance from where she lay, and her hair was matted to her face. As he assessed the position in which she was laying, and the tracks leading up to the tree, he slowly pieced together what had happened. As the realization sunk in, he felt a strange sensation surge throughout his body, a sensation with which he was not altogether unfamiliar with- _paralysis_. He was frozen in place for who knows how long as he simply looked at Mary, _his Mary_, who was always so strong, lying helpless and broken on the ground.

Before he even knew what had happened, he was standing outside the front door of the house, shouting as loudly as he could for help, with Mary cradled as gently as possible in his arms. As he waited for someone_, anyone_ to get to the door, his awareness slowly came back to him. How he had scooped her up from the ground, how she was both terribly light and troublesomely heavy. How he had tried to run as fast as his legs would carry him, but the viscous mud had clung to his feet and slowed him down to a brisk trudge. Mud, of course, always made him think of the trenches, but he would not let his mind go there- not when Mary so desperately needed him to be strong. Then he thought about how much he regretted their most recent conversation, and how he desperately hoped that it was not their last. And now, standing at the front door, he was aware of how heavy he was breathing and of the tears that were streaming down his face. He was aware of the limpness of the woman he was holding, and the alarming way that her arm was drooping to her side, as if it didn't really belong to her anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: I can't tell you how overwhelmingly grateful I am for all of your reviews/alerts/favorites! I am just blown away. Having enthusiastic readers is definitely great motivation to keep writing! I will do my absolutely best to post as frequently as possible, but I don't want to lock myself into a deadline. I'm the worst at meeting them, and I don't want to set myself up to fail (or burn out). _

_Once again, my enormous thanks to LDI for helping me to dig deeper, and to show instead of tell._

* * *

The Abbey felt like the eye of a hurricane. Nothing had changed, and yet the anticipation, _the unknown_, was swirling around them so fiercely that it was almost disorienting. It was quiet-so quiet; a whole house full of people holding their breath.

And then their little world was in utter chaos.

When Robert had come back to phone the doctor, Carson never expected that her condition would be so serious. He knew Mary well enough to know that even if she was injured, it would be her pride that hurt the most after having been "rescued". He had heard Mr. Crawley shouting, heard the distress in his voice, and still somehow he was not prepared. When he opened the door, it was as if the oxygen had been pulled directly from his lungs. Mary was in his arms, looking very much the picture of death. Carson felt his vision begin to blur, and darken in the corners, like he was looking down a tunnel. His eyes passed over them in slow motion, every detail of their countenance feeling like a stab to the heart. He saw the blood on her forehead, and where it had transferred onto Mr. Crawley's coat. He saw the dark mud that seemed to cling to every inch of her, making the paleness of her skin stand out in contrast. He saw the agony written on Mr. Crawley's face, and the ways his arms were shaking, whether from weight or from sheer emotion he could not say. And for once in his life, the ever composed butler did not know what to do. He couldn't move- couldn't think! His legs were unsteady, and he nearly fell over as Mr. Crawley brushed past him into the house, looking every bit as frantic as he felt. She was _injured_, and it had nothing to do with her pride.

Matthew rushed her into the library and laid her down on the sofa with absolutely no concern for the ruined upholstery. He was sure that no one would object. Once Mary was resting securely in place, Matthew promptly collapsed onto the floor next to her. All he could do was stare at her listless form. He was sobbing unabashedly, and kissing her hand over and over again as if his lips alone had the power to restore her. He had spoken to her of curses, and now here she was, looking the very picture of Snow White. If only his kisses were enough. He hated himself in that moment, more than he had ever before. He'd made so many mistakes- they both had- but to even imply that Mary was responsible for Lavinia's death…well that he would regret for the rest of his life. Even if Mary were to wake and forgive him, the sorrow he felt for saying such a thing would live on within him. They had been playing the same game together for a long time now, and he was through with it. He made a vow, to himself as much as to Mary, that he would be there for her always- whether her condition improved or not, whether she married Richard or not- he would be there, in whatever capacity he could be. It would be his atonement for all of the things that he had done wrong.

She was breathing, _alive_, but that was all they really knew. It wasn't enough. Robert had, of course, already alerted Clarkson who was expected at any moment. The tension moved throughout the house with an almost choking intensity.

A strangled gasp rang from the doorway. It was so near to a scream, but without any breath behind it. Robert looked up to see his wife and daughter, and beckoned for them to come into the library. But just a glance at Mary caked with mud _and_ blood had been enough to send Cora into an absolute fit. Edith had tried to calm her, to no avail, since even she seemed to be in a state of shock. Robert summoned O'Brien with strict instructions to take Lady Grantham to her bedroom for the remainder of the evening, and Edith followed them upstairs. For the first time, Robert found himself appreciating the unflappable coldness of his wife's maid.

The Earl himself was struggling to remain poised as he watched the man he had grown to love as a son falling apart at the side of his eldest daughter. He was struck most by the expression on her face- how it reminded him of when she was a child, and she would fall asleep in the chair across from him in this very room when he would read her stories. It hadn't happened on many occasions, with his duties and demands, and Mary's fierce independence even as a child, but he cherished the memories of those moments together. But Mary wasn't a sleepy little girl anymore, and her seemingly peaceful repose was not brought on by bedtime stories.

As tears threatened to escape his eyes, he knew that he must busy himself to avoid breaking down. He went to fetch Anna to have her ready the necessities to clean Mary up when the doctor arrived, as well as clean clothes to put her in after. With Carson still reeling, he asked Mrs. Hughes to phone the Dowager Countess to let her know of the accident. He also told her to phone Isobel, who would now surely be curious about her son's whereabouts. He thought briefly of Sybil, but decided that it would be best to wait to inform her of anything until they knew more about the situation. She was so far away, and things were still strained between them, although that hardly seemed to matter anymore. Not when Mary might…_no_, he wouldn't even think it. And then, he thought of his daughter's fiancé. It caused him nearly physical discomfort to think of the man at all, let alone as Mary's future husband. But whatever his own feelings were on the subject, it was only proper that he be informed.

Not more than a few minutes later, Clarkson arrived, with Isobel right on his heels. Seeing the look on her son's face-the way he could not take his eyes off of Mary-as if she might vanish should he look away, nearly broke her heart. When Clarkson turned to her to suggest that they be given some privacy, Isobel knew better than to ask that Matthew leave. She knew that kind of devotion-had seen it before-when the roles were reversed and it was Matthew looking so near to the grave. And she knew what the answer would be, even if the request was made. How cruel of fate, she thought to herself, that such young people had already known such sorrow. Life never was very fair.

With everyone now arrived and ready, they began to attend to Mary. Together Anna and Isobel cut away her mud soaked riding clothes, and wiped away the debris from her most obvious wound- a gash on her forehead, nearly at her hairline. At first glance, things appeared to be very grim, but the doctor's initial assessment provided them with some hope. The cut would need stitches, and her right clavicle was badly broken, but it appeared that there was no damage to her spine. Upon this revelation, a sigh of relief passed from everyone in the room. It wasn't much, as far as good news goes, but with the memory of Matthew's own injuries still so fresh in their minds, it came as a tremendous comfort. Her loss of consciousness was instead attributed to her head trauma. Clarkson, ever the optimist, told them that Mary was far from out of the woods. While her condition appeared to be stable at the moment, her prognosis was very much uncertain. Traumatic brain injuries were just as hard to predict as injuries to the spinal cord, if not more so. He tried, as delicately as he could manage, to tell them that she may or may not wake up, and that there was no way of knowing how long it may take. And if her consciousness did return, her memory, or even her cognition may be impaired.

Matthew was bristling internally. He had trusted Clarkson once, and might have continued to do so had it not been _Mary_ as the patient. She was _strong_-a survivor if there ever was one-and it was like Clarkson couldn't see it. His ears were ringing as he listened to this man, who had been so wrong about him and his own injuries, now delivering a similarly ghastly diagnosis for Mary. _He had to be wrong_. He made up his mind immediately that they would consult a second opinion as soon as possible. As the doctor worked his way over her, they discovered several more minor injuries; her right hip was badly bruised, and she had several small cuts along her thigh. In all the times that Matthew had imagined seeing her body over the years, he never anticipated that the first time would be like this, and he felt the sting of bile rising in his throat. God, why had he been so foolish! All of the "maybes" and "what if's" were torturously flitting about in his mind, his regrets so real that they might as well have been sitting beside him. But he would not look away, and he would not leave her side. She had tended to him at his worst, and he had every intention of doing the same for her. His eyes returned to her face, and he exhaled deeply. He could do this.

Having thoroughly checked her over, Clarkson announced that he was finished, and that they could do nothing more for her at the moment. He left Isobel with a little bit of morphine, should she happen to wake and be in pain. His instructions for the night were simply to let her rest as peacefully as possible. With Isobel quite capable of tending her minor wounds, he excused himself for the evening.

As soon as he left the room, Matthew turned to his mother to tell her that they would, under no uncertain terms, be seeking a second opinion. He didn't realize how quickly he was speaking, or how loudly. Seeing how hysterical he was, she could do nothing but shake her head in affirmation. She wouldn't deny him anything now, even if she was afraid that the news from the next doctor would be much the same. With Matthew raving and Isobel doing her best to calm him down, they had quite forgotten that they were not alone in the room.

That is until an awful, wrenching sob escaped from Anna, who was still standing just behind where Isobel was seated. Her complexion was completely drained of color, and tears were streaming down her face. Again Isobel thought of the cruelty of the world, and she stood to wrap her arms firmly around the young maid. Over the years, she had come to believe that Anna and Mary shared a special connection, at least one that was more meaningful than a simple servant/master relationship. She felt so even more now, observing her reaction to Mary's condition. As she held her, and felt the sobs wrack through her, she knew that she was indeed aching for _her friend_. Realizing that she would be of no more help to them in her condition, Isobel dismissed her for the night. Oh, she knew it wasn't her place to give orders in this house, but under the circumstances, she was sure that no one would object. Anna composed herself the best she could, and asked to be rung for if they needed anything at all. Isobel simply nodded, and smiled warmly at her. With Anna taken care of, Isobel returned her attention to her son, who had ceased his raving in favor of total silence.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: I am terribly sorry for how long you all had to wait for this update. This chapter was my own personal Everest. It was just so hard to write. There is so much emotion, and building, and I wanted to be absolutely sure I had it right. And then my mom was admitted to the hospital last week (for a painful, but treatable infection), so things were a bit hectic. And I'm visiting family and friends this week, so the free time that comes with my unemployment has been otherwise engaged. Basically, my life is a clusterf*ck._

_ As always, I must thank La Donna Ingenua for believing in me and my little story. And for metaphorically dragging my brain across a cheese grater. And for not letting me be lazy. _

* * *

Ever the professional, Isobel set straight to work. The wounds on Mary's forehead and leg needed to be dressed, and her arm needed to be set into a sling. One look at Matthew and she knew that he had gone into shock. His eyes had glazed over, his mouth pressed so firmly shut that his straining jaw muscles pulsed through his cheeks.

However upset her son was, she knew that at the moment Mary needed her more. As she prepared the suture kit, she hoped instinct would override and that Matthew would snap out of it. Her lithe and experienced fingers made quick work of the job, and the cut near her scalp was closed with four small stitches. She looked over Mary's face as if she had never seen her before—the porcelain hue of her skin, the delicateness of her lips as they pressed together, the arch of her eyebrows that seemed capable of speaking even when she was not. Isobel knew that she would, in all likelihood, have a scar marking her forehead. There were worse thing to be sure—a scar was a mark of survival, after all—but it still seemed like such a shame. She felt the same way about the scars that marked her son—her perfect boy, who was still so devastatingly handsome—but would always be just a little bit damaged; because scars only ever tell a piece of the story.

She moved to fetch a cloth from the washbasin to begin tending to the cuts on Mary's leg. As she wrung the cloth out over the bowl, the little splashes of the water seemed to rouse Matthew from his trance. As Isobel knelt down to touch the cloth to her skin, Matthew's hand covered her own, and she relinquished the duty to him. She watched her son intently, with the practiced eye of a nurse. With her instruction, he gently, _so gently_, pressed the cloth to her wounds to clear them of any debris. He squeezed out just a dollop of ointment, _the perfect amount_, and rubbed it soothingly into her skin. He applied the dressing over the abrasions, and then bent forward to place a kiss delicately on the bandage. It should have shocked her, with Mary still only covered by a sheet, but it didn't. At her encouragement, the two of them prepared to dress her in her nightgown. It was a slow and delicate affair; conducted as if she were a China doll that might break.

Matthew tried his best to focus his gaze elsewhere while they were dressing her. He was a gentleman, after all, and Mary was a Lady. Even if his mother could compartmentalize the scenario, he still felt that he should try to maintain an air of dignity about the situation. But it had been very difficult. He felt his breath catch in his throat as his eyes traced over her neckline. Even with the obvious break of her right clavicle, it was still a beautiful thing to behold. It had always been one of his favorite things about her—the long elegance of her neck, and the way her collar bones seemed to jut out just so—he thought often of kissing her there, in the crevice between her neck and shoulder, and this time he did not stop himself from doing so.

Dignity be damned.

They had just finished setting her arm into a sling when Violet burst into the room. Her eyes were puffy, her gaze glassy, and there were small patches of red high on her cheeks where she had brushed away the tears. But for once in her life, Violet Crawley had nothing to say. There was no fight in her—no arguments, no complaints—she simply sat down in the chair by the window without speaking a word. The lioness had become a lamb.

But she was still Violet Crawley, and she couldn't go falling completely to pieces at the first sign of catastrophe. After several silent minutes, she steeled her emotions—shoulders squared, back straight, chin up—and she moved towards her granddaughter. She bent down just far enough to place a quick kiss on Mary's forehead, and to pat Matthew on the shoulder. It was as much of a "thank you" as she could muster for the time being. And then, she turned to leave the room.

It wasn't so very late, but with the trials of the day, Isobel was completely exhausted. She was only realizing now how her muscles had tensed while she worked, and how her head ached. She didn't even try to argue that Matthew come back to the house with her. She simply walked over to him, and ran her fingers through the front of his hair, as she did when he was a little boy. She bent to kiss his cheek, which she hoped was as much of a comfort to him as it was to her, and then she left the room.

And then, they were alone.

Matthew had never considered himself to be a particularly devout man. Certainly, he went to church on Sundays, and he knew enough about the doctrine, but that was the extent of it. So when his hands folded in front of him, and he bowed his head, he surprised even himself. There were very few occasions in his life that had led him to pray—his father's death, finding himself the heir of Downton, the war, of course—and now,Mary. It was not something he was very familiar or comfortable with and he found himself fumbling over his words. He didn't even know what to ask for. Eventually, he just began to repeat the same mantra over and over in his head.

_Please God, make her well. Let her be well. She needs to be well_.

The words gave him something to focus on; something to think about. Something to do besides count the number of breaths Mary was taking.

Minutes soon turned into hours, and Matthew became vaguely aware that the sun had risen. They had made it through the night. He rose up slightly from his position on the floor, his stiff muscles protesting the movement, and placed a gentle kiss to her forehead. If not for the bandage and the sling, he might have thought that she had simply fallen asleep there after a long night of reading. But she was not asleep, not really anyway. She looked so perfect; he could not understand why she wouldn't just wake up.

He couldn't help but think of Lavinia. She had looked fine too, just before the worst. He hadn't even been worried at first. And then, she was gone. The memory made him dizzy, and he pinched the bridge of his nose to ease the spinning. He wished that he could stop his thoughts from racing. Especially the nagging feeling that maybe _he _was the curse. But he could not deny that those who loved him seemed to suffer the most.

Not long after the sunlight signaled the morning and the residents of the house began to stir, Sir Richard Carlisle arrived at Downton Abbey.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note:_ _I really can't apologize enough for how long this chapter took to publish. More than two weeks is just rubbish, and I hope that you can all forgive me. I could bore you to death with a million excuses, and tell you all about the exciting things going on with both me and my wonderful beta, but I won't. I will just say that I am sorry, and that I hope you find this chapter worth the wait. And, as always, thank you to La Donna Ingenua for her support!_

* * *

_Risk_ and_ profit _were two things with which Richard Carlisle was very familiar. He found that in business as well as in life, success was derived from a careful balance of the two. He was an astute businessman, and his instincts in that arena had served him well. He knew what would sell and what wouldn't, when to take a risk and when to pass. In his personal life, success had proven to be a bit more elusive. The same razor sharp judgment that made him a mogul in the media world seemed to be a bit duller in the shining realm of the English upper-crust. He felt as if he was always a step behind when he was around them—like his company was tolerable, at best.

He took a risk in pursuing Lady Mary Crawley, but it was still calculated, just like all of the decisions he made. It was obvious what she had to offer him—status, connection, power—but he was not without charms of his own. He could give her independence—a way to break out of the world where she lived by everyone else's expectations of her. And while he hadn't known it from the start, he eventually learned that Lady Mary had taken some risks of her own, which threatened to pay back in the worst possible way. And so he became her savior, which was a profit that he could have never expected; for if business had taught him anything, it was that desperation breeds loyalty.

And it worked, for a while. But after nearly two years of engagement, Richard had begun to wonder whether or not his risky investment was going to pay out. It was painfully clear that his regard for her far exceeded whatever feelings she had for him. For a while he even thought that he could live with such an arrangement—for precarious engagements to work there has to be room for compromise. But as time went on, he came to resent the terms of their agreement. The things that he thought she would find impressive were met with disinterest or scorn. His attempts at proving his worth within their circle had all but fallen flat. Even after he warned her not to cross him, she still didn't seem to take him seriously. Even thinking about it made his eyebrow twitch with anger. And the more time that she spent with the young Mr. Crawley, the more he came to suspect that the very reasons that made her inclined to accept his proposal—her scandal, his engagement, and his former injury—were perhaps not the barriers that she once thought they would be.

Essentially, he realized that they were both pawns for each other, but they were not playing the same game.

Before arriving at Downton, he had spoken to Dr. Clarkson directly about Mary's prognosis, and his mind was very much made up. Once he realized that Mary wouldn't be a trophy he could parade around, her worth diminished in his eyes. She was no longer a sound investment. His profit was no longer guaranteed. Even if she did wake up and return to her former self, he realized that it was very likely that she would leave him, and he was not willing to give her the chance to do it first.

Granted that was not the excuse he planned to make to her family. No, he would tell them this-or-that about his papers, and his demands in the city, and that he would feel just awful knowing that he couldn't properly be there for Mary. He was sure that that was something they would like to hear. Although it wasn't as if he really needed their approval.

He was met at the door by Mr. Carson, who ushered him into the house with little fanfare. He was just about to announce his arrival to Lord Grantham, but Richard informed him that it was Cora he wished to speak to. If the Butler was surprised by this request, he did not show it. He simply led him to the drawing room where he was to wait for Lady Grantham to join him.

He was certain that the butler had intentionally directed him to the least comfortable chair in the room. The stiff back and wide arms left him struggling to find an agreeable position. He mused that even the furniture of this house seemed determined to keep him on edge. As he sat and waited, he rehearsed a bit of his speech in his head. His thumb picked absentmindedly at the cuticles of his other fingers-a common habit of his when left alone with his thoughts. He was callous, but not altogether malevolent-he intended to let Cora know during their conversation that he would publish nothing about Mary in the papers. He was satisfied to let her infer that he acted out of love, but really it all came back to business. He wasn't interested in anything that wouldn't make him look good; he knew a disabled wife wouldn't, but he knew that smearing the scandalous affair of his now crippled ex-fiancé would make him look even worse. Richard Carlisle was not one to gamble with chances. He knew when to play, and when to walk away.

As Cora made her way down to the drawing room, she struggled to gather her thoughts. She stopped for a moment once she reached the bottom of the stairs to take a cleansing breath. Her head ached, and she rubbed her temples before she resumed her journey. Of course she wasn't exactly surprised that Richard had come—she knew that Robert had called him—but she was rather curious as to why he requested a private audience with her rather than going straight to Mary. Why should he want to talk to _her_when his fiancé was just down the hall? She knew better than anyone the circumstances of their agreement, but she had come to hope that he and Mary might be happy together. He certainly wasn't perfect—he was boorish at times, and seemed to have little patience. He was also closer to her age than that of her daughter, but under the circumstances she knew that Mary couldn't afford to be very particular. Her thoughts then drifted to Matthew, who was in all likelihood by her daughter's side at that very moment. The way he jumped to action had both surprised and touched Cora, particularly since it had seemed that he and Mary had not been on good terms before the accident. She didn't know the particulars, but she had observed the change between them since Lavinia's passing. Their easy conversations had become strained, and they spent almost no time together. She had long ago given up on the idea of the two of them together—what with Mary's scandal, and then his engagement to Lavinia—but her certainty on the matter was waning. When she finally reached the door to the drawing room, she was suddenly glad that Richard had sought her out first. She could only imagine what might have happened had Richard gone to the library and discovered that her most devoted nurse was Matthew Crawley.

Elsewhere in the house, everyone was attempting to return to business as usual. But things were so very unusual now, and the angst of the situation hung over them all like a cloud. The family was slow to emerge from their bedrooms, and the staff seemed to be walking on eggshells. The usual breakfast was prepared, but no one seemed very interested in eating. Cora was, of course, occupied so Robert and Edith sat together in silence. Neither of them knew what quite what to do or say, so they simply sat.

Cora was not sure what she had expected to hear from Sir Richard Carlisle, but it certainly was not that he would be releasing Mary and leaving for London on the next train. Shock, outrage, _relief_…these were just some of the things she felt as she listened to him go on and on about his duty to his business, while saying little to nothing about his duty to her daughter. She realized about halfway through his speech that her fingers were literally digging into the arms of her chair, and she flexed them to ease the tension. She did find that she was glad his true colors were revealed before the wedding, because obviously the vow to love "_in sickness and in health_" was not one that he cared to fulfill. When he finally did get around to his feelings for Mary, Cora became even more confused. He talked as if he cared a great deal for her, but his resolution didn't change. He was leaving. She gasped out loud, all the color draining from her face when he brought up the scandal, and she had to work quickly to reel herself in. She adjusted her posture, smoothed her hands over her skirt, and fought to refocus her attention on Sir Richard. But to her great surprise, he said that nothing would end up in the papers. He was burying the story for good. She thought that if there was one decent thing about the man, she had just witnessed it. And then, they were both quiet. He had said all he came to say, and she was utterly speechless. Even as she watched him rise to leave, she couldn't seem to summon the ability to stand, or to tell him goodbye.

And so he made his way out into the grand foyer for the last time. He thought briefly of Mary as his eyes slowly passed over his surroundings, but he didn't even know where they were keeping her. A part of him did wish to see her one last time, but he decided that it was not _worth the risk_.

Sometime later, she really couldn't be sure just how long, Cora regained enough composure to leave the drawing room. She wished desperately to see Mary. How would she explain all of this to her? Would she even get the chance? The thought made her shiver as she walked towards the library. She was nearly there when Robert and Edith emerged from the dining room and silently joined her. As they entered, Matthew stood from the chair that he had moved next to Mary, and did his best to greet them. His clothing was completely disheveled, and the dark circles under his eyes answered the unasked question of if he had gotten any sleep. Initially all he could manage was a tight smile, but as they moved closer, he was able to tell them that not much had changed.

None of them could understand it. She looked so _perfect_. There was nothing on the outside that gave any indication as to why she would not wake up. And that was what scared them the most.  
Clarkson was due to check in on her later in the afternoon, but waiting and doing nothing made them all feel a bit helpless. It was Matthew who suggested that they should move her to one of the first floor bedrooms so that she might be more comfortable. Having a sense of purpose immediately made the atmosphere of the room lighten and they all set to work. Edith went to select a room, and Robert went to notify the staff. After hesitating for a moment, Cora went to assist Edith. She wanted to be sure that everything would be just right.

And again, Matthew and Mary were alone. Taking charge of the situation had left him feeling strangely hopeful. Knowing that he was responsible for her care boosted his morale tremendously. He gently sat himself on the edge of the sofa next to Mary and told her that they were going to be moving her to one of the bedrooms. He did not know if she could hear him or not, but it comforted him to think that maybe she could. With so much of her control taken away by her false slumber, he wanted to make sure that she was informed of everything; even if it did turn out that she couldn't hear him. _Just in case_ he thought to himself. Just in case.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note: Hello all, hope you're still here! I know I'm beginning to sound like a broken record, but I am truly sorry for how long these chapters are taking me. When I started this story I had no demands on my time, but as the weeks have progressed I've gotten sort of bogged down. The good news is that this story isn't going to be terribly long (I anticipate 8-10 chapters total), and I have it all planned. I'm moving at the end of this month to start an internship and I will have internet access that is questionable at best, so I'm sincerely hoping to resolve it all before then. Not promises though. And as always, I must thank La Donna Ingenua for her continued support, despite the fact that her life is infinitely busier than mine!_

_And I have to thank you all for your reviews/alerts/favorites! You are all absolutely wonderful for taking the time to read my little story :-)_

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When Matthew suggested that Mary be moved somewhere more comfortable, it had not even occurred to him that she might be put in the room where he had stayed to recover.

For most of the day, he was busy enough that he didn't have time to let it bother him. Clarkson came to check on Mary and had a whole new set of tasks for him to assist with. Matthew watched as the doctor carefully pulled the rubber tubing and several large glass bottles from his bag. As he set up the IV apparatus, he gave Matthew some simple instructions. It would be up to him to monitor the fluid level of the bottles, and to make sure that the needle in her arm stayed in place. Without proper training, it was the most he could do, but it still gave him a sense of purpose. While the family was still gathered around Mary, Clarkson told all of them that he had set up an on-call schedule for a few of the nurses from the hospital, and that should they need assistance in any way one of the nurses would be available to come up.

Watching Clarkson prepare the needle made Matthew's pulse quicken. It wasn't so very long ago that he was the patient, and the memories of the prodding and procedures still set him on edge. The doctor was just about to insert the needle into Mary's arm, but Matthew abruptly stopped him. Everyone turned and looked at him as if he had sprouted a second head. But before they could say anything, he sat down next to Mary and took her hand in his. In what he hoped was a reassuring voice, he spoke directly to her and explained what was about to happen, just in case. He told her about the fluids, and that there would be a needle, but that she shouldn't worry…it would only pinch for a moment. He wished that he could take his own advice, because all he seemed to be able to do was worry. Once he had explained it all, he nodded at Clarkson to resume, but did he not release her hand. He bit firmly into the skin of his cheek, hoping that the pain would help to steady his shaking lips. But his simple gesture had charged the room with emotion, and even Robert found himself unable to stop the rogue drops from slipping down his cheeks.

When the doctor was ready to leave, everyone save Matthew followed him out of the room. They had all accepted the fact that they had more questions than Clarkson had answers, so all that was said was goodbye. The three of them stood together in the hallway outside of Mary's room, just sort of hovering. These moments of awkward, heavy silence were becoming more and more frequent as none of them were ever quite sure what to do next. The sense of order and control that helped to keep the house running smoothly was turned upside down. Even the smallest of decisions now seemed to carry the utmost importance. After several moments spent nervously fidgeting, Edith declared that she was going to take the motor to the Dower House to update Violet on the situation. Seemingly spurred on by Edith's motivation, Cora decided that she was going to go upstairs and lie down. Robert simply nodded at both of them and turned to go back into Mary's room.

Now that she was settled again, Robert tried to convince Matthew to leave her side long enough to clean himself up and get something to eat. He had been so preoccupied with Mary that he hadn't even realized that he was still wearing his mud stained clothes, and that he hadn't eaten in nearly twenty four hours. He couldn't deny the appeal of getting cleaned up; even if he was loathe to leave Mary.

Despite his ravenous hunger, he ate his food without tasting it. He also bathed as quickly as possible, even those his aching muscles practically begged for the soothing comfort of a long soak. It seemed so strange to him now that they had recently spent so much time apart. He knew that it was his fault—Mary was respecting his wishes and keeping her distance—but the loneliness still stung him. Perhaps he was overcompensating a bit, but he really couldn't stand being separated from her now. He had no idea what would happen once she woke up, but even the thought of things returning to what they had been before made him feel sick to his stomach. He couldn't go back to the distance, and the forced politeness, and the volley of bitterness that seemed to fly between them.

Matthew, however, was not the only one struggling to define a new normal. Cora spent the day wondering how she was supposed to handle the news about Richard. No one else, save for Carson, was even aware of Carlisle's visit, let alone the implications of it. The tension of the secret pressed upon her like a physical weight. She was almost surprised that they couldn't all see it hanging over her… but if they did notice anything, they probably just attributed it to her distress about Mary. She was glad that Robert hadn't said anything about her coming to lie down. She desperately needed the time alone to think. She knew that it was up to her to break the news to everyone, but she had no idea how to do it. What excuse would she give? How could she make them understand—really understand—without revealing Mary's secret? Would it even matter? It all seemed silly to her now, given the circumstances. Seven years and a war later, what once seemed to be an indelible and unforgivable stain on her character now seemed much more like what it really was—a mistake. A foolish mistake made by a young girl who could not have possibly anticipated such long reaching consequences. She decided that Robert should know first, and then she would tell Matthew. Although she still wasn't quite sure how she was going to tell either of them. The truth, she supposed, would be the best place to start.

When Matthew returned to Mary's room, he found that Robert had taken up the place at her side where he had spent nearly the entirety of the past day. As he watched them together, he thought for the first time about how the accident must be affecting all of them. He felt silly and selfish for not having thought about it before, but he had been so overcome with his own grief that theirs had not even entered his thoughts. As he moved into the room, Robert glanced up at him and made to move away from the bed. What had been an inkling of self-absorption was now full blown guilt over the way he had behaved. He quickly assured Robert that he could keep his place, and that he was sure Mary would be glad to have his company. Robert thanked him and settled back down. It felt as if having a conversation might shatter the delicate panes of glass that seemed to be surrounding them all and keeping them together. Words were stones to be thrown, and it all felt too fragile.

Sometime later, when Carson came to tell Robert that Lady Grantham was asking for him, both men practically jumped at the sound of his voice. Robert was nearly out of the room when he turned back towards Matthew. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but instead took a few steps forward and enclosed him a brief but powerful embrace.

Matthew reclaimed the spot beside her bed and reached out for her hand. As long as she was warm and breathing, and he was able to touch her, everything felt as if it might be alright. But as the afternoon dragged on, he found it more and more difficult to keep his mind in the present. It seemed that the room still harbored some of his ghosts, and he was not keen on commiserating with them.

He remembered one afternoon in particular when Mary was off somewhere with Carlisle, and he was feeling very defeated by his future prospects. His mother was with him, but they were both sitting silently, after several attempts at conversation on her part had been met with exasperated sighs and curt responses. She had decided to take a chance and to tell him that things might not really be as bad as they seem, at least in regards to his affection for Mary. But he wouldn't hear it. He remembered the exact phrase he had said to her that day: "you really mustn't try to invent possibilities where there are none Mother. It's a very good way of being disappointed."

If only he had listened to her. If only things had been different. Once they started, he could not stop the "if onlys" from flooding his brain. He briefly wondered if it really might be possible to drown without any water.

It was just before dinner when Carson came to tell Matthew that Cora wished to speak to him in the library. He didn't want to leave Mary alone, but Carson assured him that he would keep her company.

Cora had already arranged to have everyone get a tray in their room. She knew that there was no way that anyone would feel like eating in the dining room, especially after she was done talking to Matthew. Robert had taken the news much better than expected, and that gave her some hope, but she was still so unsure how Matthew would react. She wished more than anything in that moment that Mary would wake up and make everything right again. She was so much better with words and emotions—she would know how to tell him. But as it was, the task fell to Cora alone.

With the sun long set and nearly everyone else gone to bed, Matthew sat awake. The last beads of sweat were still lingering on his brow, but his breathing had since returned to normal. He had only intended to go for a short walk—to get some fresh air really—but once outside he could do nothing but run. He felt as if he were outside of himself, observing it all happen, but not really feeling it. He didn't know why he was running, or where he was meant to be going…only that he needed to run. He ran until his chest burned and his feet could carry him no further. As he gasped to refill his lungs, he thought of Mary. He thought of everything that they had been through—the fights that turned them into friends, the friendship that turned into love, and all of the disasters that tore them apart. He wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the ground and lay there until he became a part of it. He felt beaten, both physically and mentally. His thoughts were occurring too rapidly to process with any sort of reason. He wasn't exactly mad… not at her anyway. He was mad about the circumstances. And more than anything, he was mad about all of the wasted time.

Looking down at her now, he wondered if they were not meant to have their second—or third, really—chance. He tried his best to shake the thought from his head. He loved her. He was with her now, with absolutely no one standing in the way, and he wasn't going anywhere. When Cora told him about Richard, Matthew couldn't decide whether he should be angry about the fact that he left in such a manner, without even pretending to care about Mary, or whether he should just be sincerely glad to be rid of him. He hadn't even come to visit. Matthew had, perhaps naively, expected that he would be competing for a place at her bedside—or at the very least that he would receive some thinly veiled threats about spending too much time with a woman who was betrothed to someone else.

He never trusted Carlisle, or understood what Mary possibly saw in him in the first place. He said as much to Cora, but she had an explanation for that too. All of these years later and he had still bristled with jealous when she said the name Pamuk. He remembered that night very well—the unabashed flirting between Mary and the Turk had left a rather bitter taste in his mouth. He had gone home that night feeling angrier than he had the right to be…or so he thought at the time. It made him dizzy to think that if he had placed his anger on the right person, he might have been able to prevent it all. He wished more than anything that Mary would wake up so that he could hear it from her, in her own words, with her own reasons. Cora may have known a lot about the incident itself, but there were so many extenuating circumstances that she knew nothing about; so many questions that she could not answer for him.

He wondered if it would even matter. Would it change anything for him? No, he decided that it would not. As much as he would have loved to know why she had done it, the fact remained that it was done, and he could not change that. He could only change how they would move forward from it. It was getting rather late, and he knew that he should be getting to bed. He hadn't felt so sore since his nights in the trenches and he was desperate for a proper night's sleep. Anna had made up a room for him so that he could stay close, but it still felt too far from Mary. He knew that he would be of no use to her if he didn't start taking care of himself, and that was ultimately what motivated him to leave. Several of his joints popped audibly as he rose to move to the corner of her bed. He gently brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead before covering the spot with a kiss. He supposed his mother would be back tomorrow to change her bandages. That was one of the things he hated most about being wounded—lying there helpless with other hands pulling and pressing on spots that clearly did not want to be pressed. His heart ached at the thought of her feeling such pain. At least her external injuries were less extensive than his had been, and would take less time to manage. And of course he would be there to help her through it all. A rattling sigh escaped from his chest, and his eyes fogged with tears. It wasn't fair, not any of it. He wanted to tell her so many things and do so many things with her—take her to Manchester, go for a picnic, ask her to be his forever. He knew he had to leave, if only to stop his imagination from running away from him. And so he leaned down to leave her with one more kiss. As his lips pulled from her skin, he moved to whisper into her ear. His words were soft and gentle, full of hope and promises. He hoped that they were enough.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: And so the story continues! I really am sorry for the length of time between chapters; I hope you can forgive me. There are only two chapters left after this one, so you can expect resolution shortly. I am, as always, blown away by the support I've gotten from all of you. It really means the world to me. _

_Now, on with the show…_

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The early morning sun had only just risen when the first train from London pulled up to the Downton platform. Isobel Crawley was not accustomed to being at the station so early, and she was surprised by how lively it all seemed. The steam from the train surrounded her like a fog, and the world seemed to burst to life from it. Commuters were coming and going all around her, and she felt suddenly odd that the rest of the world had not seemed to have stopped like theirs had. The hustle and bustle was a bit overwhelming, but she tried her best to remain focused on the task at hand. Her eyes scanned through the crowd hoping to spot their target. Although she supposed it was rather silly for her to be looking for him when she had no idea what he actually looked like.

Dr. Theodore Phillips was a well-respected neurosurgeon; some might even say the best in his field. He had studied under Cushing at Hopkins before returning to St. Mary's Hospital in London as the Chief of Surgery. Isobel had spent much of the previous day placing calls to her husband's old associates, and it was his name that she heard over and over again. Using those same contacts, she managed to pull a few strings and get into contact with the man himself. He wasn't in the habit of making house calls, but after he heard Mary's story (and that she was the daughter of an Earl) he felt that the circumstances warranted an exception. Isobel had agreed to meet him at the station and accompany him up to the house

With a frustrated sigh, she made her way back over to where Pratt was standing. He held a small placard with "Dr. Phillips" written on it, so it really did make much more sense to wait for him there. She was practically vibrating with nervous energy, and had to work to stop her foot from tapping incessantly. She had never considered herself an impatient person, but watching the crowds beginning to thin around her, she couldn't help her anxiety. She was about to send Pratt out further down the platform when a tall, slender man with salt and pepper hair began to approach them. His suit was perfectly tailored, and he carried a rather expensive looking leather doctor's satchel. The bag should have given him away immediately, but she still found herself inquisitorially stating "Dr. Phillips?" With a quick nod of confirmation they were introduced, and not more than a few moments later they were on their way to the house.

Despite the still rather early hour, the house was already in a flurry of activity. Cora had decided to take her breakfast tray in Mary's room rather than in bed, and had asked for a tray for Matthew as well. It hadn't escaped her attention that he seemed rather inclined to forget to eat when he was taking care of Mary. Anna was there too, gently running a comb through Mary's hair. Her actions were slow and methodic, but her thoughts were racing. She supposed she was rather selfish to wish that Mary was awake so that she could talk to her about John. But Mary had become her confidant during the trial and she desperately missed being able to talk to someone who really understood the way she was feeling. She also couldn't help but wonder if maybe she was some sort of bad omen—if those that she loved the most were predestined to suffer. As much as she wished she could convince herself that the very notion was ridiculous, it was still there. She pulled the comb through Mary's hair and wished that she could draw out all of the bad luck with every stroke. Start at the scalp and slowly, gently, pull it all out. The knots she encountered felt somehow like a sad reflection of her life—all of the little obstacles and entanglements stopping her from reaching the end. If only her problems were as easy to work through. She was drawn from these thoughts by Carson announcing Mrs. Crawley and a Doctor Phillips.

All eyes were immediately drawn to the mysterious man standing in the doorway. He looked as much like a movie star as he did a doctor—tall, broad shouldered, immaculately dressed—and they all stared at him for a fraction longer than was proper. Isobel could not fault them for their surprise—she hadn't told them he would be coming—but she still awkwardly cleared her throat before making the introductions. With hands shaken and names learned, the doctor finally made his way over to the patient.

He moved around Mary like one would move around a painting hung in a museum; slowly, deliberately, taking in every detail of her condition. He checked the cut on her forehead first, remarking that it seemed to be healing well. Her collar bone was next on the list, and he pulled her arm delicately out of its sling. He knew that his examination was the second opinion, and that the family did not entirely trust the diagnoses of the first doctor. As he palpated the area around her shoulder his face fell into a contemplative frown. He took her hand and gently pulled it towards her body so that her arm was parallel to her chest. The frown was supplanted by a knowing smirk, and he replaced her arm in its sling. He found that it was not a fracture, but rather an acromioclavicular separation—a separated shoulder. He explained to them that her injury was known as a type 2 separation, meaning that the supporting ligaments were torn away, but the bone itself was not broken. She would have a permanent bump from the injury, but would regain full movement. He examined her IV line next, and again the curious frown crossed his brow. After checking around the foot of her bed he let out an exasperated sigh in anticipation of a conversation that was certain to be uncomfortable. He apologized in advance for the frankness of his question, but he knew there was no avoiding it. Isobel could sense his apprehension, and assured him that whatever it was he had to say, they could handle it. Matthew, Cora, and Anna shared a glance that said they weren't quite as sure. After taking a steadying breath, he began to explain that while he did think it best for Mary to be receiving IV fluids, her other doctor had only accounted for the input, not the output. Isobel caught on immediately, but the others still did not quite understand what the doctor had in mind. Sensing that he needed to explain further, he told them that he would like to insert a catheter for urine collection. There was no need for any of them to have to deal with the maintenance of soiled sheets on top of all their troubles. Matthew felt the pinking rush of blood to his cheeks, but gave no other indication of disturbance. Cora just shook her head several times and encouraged the doctor to resume his examination.

He spent several more minutes going over her external injuries before focusing on her neurological ones. The kind of injury Mary sustained was very hard to read, even by someone considered to be a leader in the field of brain trauma. He did, however, offer them significantly more hope. After doing a few simple tests that Clarkson either didn't know, or didn't care to do, he explained that even in her coma, her physical responses were still active. Her pupils dilated when exposed to light, and her reflex points in her arms and legs flexed when stimulated. He assured them that these were all very good signs. Her heartbeat was strong and steady, and she didn't appear to have any difficulty breathing. Even though he could not say when she might wake up, he was most certain that she would. There was a palpable release of tension in the room. It was more good news than they had expected, and Matthew had never felt more grateful to his mother for making the connections and finding an expert. Dr. Phillips continued on, explaining the importance of maintaining a routine for Mary. He recommended that they read to her and speak to her as often as possible. His experience had taught him that even if patients cannot outwardly respond while comatose, many of them are at least somewhat cognizant of their surroundings. Hearing familiar voices and stories had been shown to help rouse consciousness once the brain had begun to heal. He also explained the importance of gently flexing her arms and legs, so that her muscles would not atrophy due to lack of use.  
It was a lot of information to digest, but an unbelievable feeling of lightness had fallen upon them—the crushing weight of total uncertainty now lifted. The doctor left instructions and supplies for the rotational nurses to manage her care, and recommended that Isobel supervise and report back to him. He received hearty thanks from everyone, and Anna escorted him from the room.

* * *

As the next week progressed, everyone developed their own routine around Mary. Cora and Matthew continued their shared breakfasts, while Anna tended to her personal care. Violet took her tea in Mary's room as often as she was able, and it was Edith's idea to move the gramophone into the room so that she could have music. Robert sat with her every night after dinner, and then Matthew came to read to her every evening. Nurses came and went throughout the day, and things began to feel as normal as possible under such circumstances. Her external injuries were healing remarkably well, and they all hoped that the same was true of her internal ones, although she had yet to show any signs of consciousness. Still, spirits were generally high. It seemed that having a routine to stick to was beneficial for everyone. The heavy, awkward silences that punctuated the first two days after the accident had turned to easy, if somewhat superficial chatter. Of course it wasn't ideal, but it was progress.

Matthew was particularly glad of their unofficial schedule. Those first few days had become sort of a blur in his mind, but after the visit from Dr. Phillips he couldn't help but feel a little out of sorts. Of course he was thrilled to know that she would recuperate, but now with everyone taking a more active role in her recovery, he wasn't as sure of his place. He knew that it was not really necessary for him to be staying at the house, but he couldn't bear the thought of leaving. Not that anyone had asked him to—or even hinted that he was not welcome—it was just a lingering feeling that he was on the periphery. But then he had the evenings to look forward to. Each night he would venture to the library and select something to take to read to her. He started with old favorites like Wells and Verne, moved on to Shelley, and then to some Shakespeare although he knew it was not her favorite. Each night was something new, whether or not the previous story was finished. Seven nights had passed since the doctor had come, and while he couldn't help but enjoy his time reading to Mary, he hoped with every fiber of his being that tonight's book would be the last he would have to read. He took his time making the selection, carefully examining every row. Finally, he stumbled upon the selection of Classics. He grabbed an old volume of Greek mythology and began to absentmindedly thumb through it. He stopped when he happened across the story of Andromeda and Perseus. A sad smile spread across his face as he remembered that evening so long ago. He remembered being both nervous and indignant at the same time; wishing to be simultaneously impressive and aloof. He had no idea what to expect of any of them, and it was clear that they expected very little of him. Even knowing of his law degree, Mary had still seemed stunned that he was educated. _Of course he knew the story of Andromeda_! He had wondered then if it was all some sort of game, or a trick that someone was playing on him. Was he brought there for their amusement? It was obvious that she would tease him in any manner she could find. At the time he could not imagine being her friend, let alone being in love with her. If someone had told him then that he would look back on those days as simpler times, he would have laughed in their face. Releasing a heavy sigh, he closed the book, tucked it under his arm, and made his way back to her room.

He read as much as he could bear before the words on the page were obscured by the tears in his eyes. It was too much—the memories too real—and his own thoughts turned against him. If only he could really be her Perseus…could really save her from this awful mess. But it was useless. He couldn't do anything. He closed the book and tried desperately to pull himself together. He wished for strength that he was not sure he had, and tried to get his breathing under control. After several minutes, he felt that he had regained enough of his composure to wish her goodnight. He ran his fingers through his hair, and sat gingerly on the corner of her bed. She really did look much better—although he was not sure it was possible for her to ever look bad. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath into his lungs, saying a silent prayer that _this would be the last night_.

And the he leaned down as he always did to whisper his nightly promises into her ear. Only this time, her head turned ever so slightly towards him as he spoke, a sigh escaping from her throat so gently that he was not sure he had heard it at all. Surely he was imagining it! But no, he felt her cheek against his own as sure as he felt his heart beating within his chest. He pulled back from her quickly and cupped her face in his hands. Her eyes were still closed, and he hesitantly said her name. She did not respond. In that moment it was as if nothing and everything had changed. She was not awake, not really, but she had moved. He felt it. He knew it. It was real. It happened. And that meant everything.


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: Here's the one you've all been patiently waiting for! This chapter is very different from all of the rest, so I'm very eager to hear what you all think. It's also unbetaed, so any errors are entirely my own. I moved last week to start a new internship, so my time frame for writing and revision has become a bit more challenging. Crossing my fingers that it is one you will enjoy! _

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Matthew sank back into the chair at her bedside and fell into a restless sleep. It was a night fraught with bad dreams, cold sweats, and crushing anxiety. In one instance he was back in his chair, never to have recovered. In another, he was fine one minute and suddenly couldn't walk the next. He felt those phantom tingles in his legs again, and woke more than once in sheer panic, desperately grasping at his limbs to make sure that he could indeed feel them. He had rather a lot of poor nights of sleep lately, but nothing had felt quite so brutal. He simply couldn't turn his mind off; his eyes shut, and he was transported immediately back to those dark and hopeless days. Each time he woke, he made sure to check on Mary, but there was still no change. In the early morning hours he began to doubt himself and what he had felt. What if her head turn was nothing more than a fantasy—a lingering memory of something that he had once felt, but was unlikely to feel again? He shuddered at the thought.

He ran his hands through his hair and forced himself to close his eyes once more. And by some stroke of luck or mercy, he was finally able to sleep.

When he awoke, it was to the sound of someone calling his name. His eyes snapped open when he realized _who_ was speaking, and he was by her side in a flash. She appeared to be having some sort of bad dream—writhing and twisting, her eyes pressed tightly shut—calling his name as if he was the only thing that would save her. He gently brushed the hair off of her forehead and whispered her name, hoping to calm her as well as himself. He was frightfully unsure of what to do next. After taking a steadying breath, he began to catalog the facts within his mind. She was conscious, but not awake. She was speaking, but wouldn't respond. _She seemed to be scared of something_. While he had found that this tactic of thought gathering had aided his decision making in the trenches, it now left him feeling more conflicted. He wanted to call for someone, but he did not want to leave her alone. He could pull the cord, he knew, but it was so early still that he was not sure that anyone would hear it. He looked down at Mary again, hoping that she would have the answer for him. She had stopped thrashing around, but was still muttering every few seconds. With great trepidation, he rose from her side and made to leave the room. He decided that he would go and quickly wake Robert, without putting the whole house on alert. If Mary was truly waking up, she would likely feel overwhelmed by a room full of people. He had just about reached the door when he heard it again, only this time it was not a dream addled murmur. It was loud and clear- "Matthew". He was vaguely aware of the feeling of all the air leaving his lungs as he turned slowly on the spot. His eyes fell upon hers—now open and staring at him curiously.

* * *

_It was the rush of the wind that roused her. The sudden burst of cool air colliding with the steam that seemed to be surrounding her on all sides. She brought her hand to her brow like a visor and squinted hard, trying to get her bearings. But she couldn't seem to see anything beyond the length of her hand. It was an eerie feeling—both comforting and unnerving—being swathed in the dense fog. And then, as quickly as it had engulfed her, it was gone. She found that she was standing on the platform at Downton Station. She drew in a deep breath, glad to be aware of her location, but utterly unsure of what she was doing there. It felt so different than any of the other times she had been there. The usual cacophony of traveling sounds was absent, as was the presence of any people. Or so it had seemed. Her eyes raked slowly over the setting around her, and she found it all to be very odd. She turned again to find that a train had arrived on the tracks. More like appeared, she decided, since it certainly did not "arrive" from any destination that she was aware of. Before she even had a chance to wonder about its mysterious origins, she noticed two figures standing beside it. In an instant she felt as if the ground beneath her had crumbled, and that all of her blood had rushed to her head. The dizziness seemed like it would crush her, and she stumbled against it. She forced her eyes shut tight and breathed in deeply through her nose. "It's impossible", she told herself, "a figment of my imagination. When I open my eyes, they will not be there". Even in her mind, she didn't believe it. She opened her eyes slowly and was again greeted by the vision of Matthew and herself at the other end of the platform. She remembered that day well, even though it had been so long ago. She remembered how different the world seemed so early in the morning. She remembered how chilly the air had been as she walked to her destination. She remembered her hands trembling in her pockets as she paced along the platform. And she remembered how her heart seemed to skip a beat when she finally saw him. It had seemed like such a silly gesture to her at the time—more of an excuse to see him than anything—but for some reason it was still very important for him to have it. She had called it a lucky charm, but if she was honest, it was more of a token; a piece of herself that she wanted to give to him. After he had been injured and she knew what it had meant to him, the memories of that morning were even sweeter. But as she watched the two of them now, things seemed to be different. They were standing differently, and their expressions were altered. And then, he was leaving. But she had not given him the dog, and she hadn't wished him luck, or kissed his cheek! It was all so very, very wrong. Suddenly, she found herself running towards them. She was shouting his name, telling him to wait, but he didn't seem to be able to hear her. As she ran she became aware of a searing pain in her hip. She fought against it, still screaming for him. He had boarded the train now, but she could see him sitting in the window. She shouted again and again to no avail, running and running but seeming to go nowhere. But then his eyes met hers, and he was at the window, calling for her. She tried to reach her hand out, but found that her arm would not move. It just hung at her side, utterly betraying her. And then the train began to move; began to take him away from her. But he didn't have his charm, and she didn't wish him luck, and everything was just wrong. _

_And then, she was alone again, her surrounding seeming to become hazy around her. She was sore all over for reasons that she could not understand. The pain seemed to radiate, dull in some spots and sharp in others. She wasn't sure where she was anymore, but she hardly cared. All that she wanted was for Matthew to come back. She had to fix it—nothing would be the same if she didn't. In an effort that she thought was surely hopeless, she called his name again. Much to her surprise, it made her feel better. She could almost imagine that he was with her, and it warmed her considerably. She realized that she was rather more comfortable in every way than she had been just moments before. Everything began to feel familiar again. She held her eyes shut for a moment, and when she opened them again she found herself in Matthew's old room. She instantly felt relieved—if she was here, it meant that he had been here—and that he was alive. And then she saw him, only he was leaving again. She could not bear the thought of having to watch him disappear once more, so she called out to him tentatively, one last time…_

* * *

He wasn't sure how he had managed to close the gap between them so quickly. All he knew for sure was that she was in his arms, and that his lips were pressed firmly to hers, and that his face was wet with tears.

He heard the sound of surprise escape from Mary's throat, and a few moments later he felt her left hand come to rest on his shoulder to gently push him back. He could not tell if his breath was coming so quickly because of shock, or because of his reaction to being able to _really kiss her_. She looked down to her arm in its sling, and then back to Matthew, a million questions painted across her face. She seemed to be breathing rather quickly as well, and he suddenly remembered that for all she knew it was utterly inappropriate for him to be kissing her. He mentally chastised himself for acting so rashly. He knew he should apologize, but something about the way she was looking at him made him feel that it might not be necessary.

Propriety was certainly the last thing on Mary's mind. The first thought that occurred to her was simply relief. Matthew was here, and he was fine, and he was _kissing her_. The second was that she was in a fair amount of pain, although she could not imagine why. She tried to remember how she came to be in this room, but had no recollection of her arrival. As much as she wished to be absorbed in their kiss, she had far too many questions racing through her mind. With the little strength she could muster, she managed to gently push him back. She glanced down as she tried to catch her breath and noticed that her arm was set in a sling. She looked back to Matthew, hoping that he would be able to tell her something that made even the slightest bit of sense.

"Matthew, what in the world is going on?"

Oh god, he wanted to tell her! He wanted to tell her everything, but he couldn't seem to find the words; he didn't know where to start. No, that wasn't exactly true…he wanted to start with "I love you, and everything is going to be just fine!" but he knew that that was not an appropriate beginning. How much detail would she want? Would she need? Was he even the right person to explain it all to her? It felt as if his heart had risen from his chest and taken up residence in his throat—the beat so strong he thought it might choke him. His hand, that had somehow found its way to his knee, was straining and white from the pressure of his grip.

Mary could read the tension of his body like the pages of a book, and it made her feel rather unsettled. She could only imagine what his hesitancy meant, and she was more than a little weary of the possibilities. Still, she wanted—needed—to know. Reaching towards him, she gently placed her hand over his, hoping to provide some encouragement.

"Whatever it is…please just tell me."

Matthew felt his grip relax under her touch, and he raised his eyes to meet hers. "Start at the beginning", he told himself. With a protracted sigh, he began…

"There was an accident."

As hard as it had been to start, he soon found that he was unable to stop himself from speaking. Words were pouring out of him like a dam that burst, and he was struggling to recall the facts quickly enough to say them. _Diamond. The rain. The tree. Injured. Coma. May not recover._ He watched her face carefully as he spoke, looking for any signs of confusion or stress. Her expression gave nothing away, but the hand that she had placed over his was now securely gripping the cuff of his sleeve. He knew the next part would be the hardest for her to hear, and he nervously bit the corner of his lip, trying to find the words.

"Richard...is gone" the words tumbled slowly into the room, their full weight and implication falling like an avalanche on them both. Even the sounds of their breathing had ceased, both holding the air in their lungs in anticipation of the words that would surely follow. His eyes met hers, and in that instant he saw through her schooled composure, and recognized the look of fear. It was one that he had worn often, and knew very well.

Upon hearing his name, Mary felt her muscles tense, a vague feeling of panic effusing through her. It took everything she had to stop the shaking that she felt reverberating from her core. Her mind was racing with all of the things that Matthew could possibly have to say to her about Richard and none of them we're good. Despite many years of careful practice in the art of appearing impassive, she knew from the way he was looking at her that she had given something away; some small signal that he seemed to effortlessly perceive and she could not decide whether or not she was glad for it. He had been silently studying her for some seconds now, apparently waiting for her to respond before he would continue with the story.

"Oh…I see" was all she could manage.

She flashed him a classic tight smirk—the one he knew she used as a defense mechanism—the one that meant that she had nothing further to say.

"Yes well, the thing is…he came and spoke to your mother. It was all very secretive…no one else even knew that he had been here." Matthew knew that he had reached the point of no return. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff—peering down to see wait was waiting below—but unable to see the bottom. His nostrils flared as he slowly pulled in a breath. "He came to tell her that he wished to release you from the engagement" he paused and looked up at her, before moving on "and to say that he would publish nothing of you and the Turk in his papers. He's burying the story for good."

So he knew then. He knew everything. He knew what she had done, and how she tried to cover it up, and how she tried to make it go away. The panic that she had felt moments before had settled into something entirely different. Something warm and numbing, like a sip of strong whiskey. It made her hear her heartbeat in her ears. She felt like she was losing touch of everything around her, and she thought that maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. She could not bring herself to look at him.

God, what was he thinking! He should have known it would be too much for her to hear right away. He should have gone straight away to get her parents, or Anna, or anyone else who would not have made her look the way she did now. He couldn't possibly imagine what she must be thinking, but he wanted to reassure in some small way.

"Mary, you must know that it changes nothing for me! Not my opinion of you, my feelings for you…not any of it." He placed his hand over hers firmly, hoping to emphasize the point.

The touch of his hand seemed to squelch the burning that had begun to overwhelm her, but as she opened her mouth to speak, the only sound that escaped was a pitiful sob. She knew that she would not be able to stop the tears that were flooding her eyes, so she did not try. And when Matthew pulled her into his arms, she did not resist. She let her head fall to his shoulder, and she let her tears soak through his shirt.

* * *

At first, Cora thought that she was hearing things—that her mind was playing tricks on her. But as she moved down the hallway towards Mary's recovery room, the sounds of soft sobbing grew louder. It was a sound that she had not heard often over the years, but one that she recognized instantly. And for a moment, she thought her heart might stop. She quickened her pace, desperate for her eyes to confirm what her ears already knew—Mary was awake.

She reached the door and swiftly pushed it open, heading to her daughter immediately.

Mary looked up from Matthew's shoulder when she heard the door open, and felt glad to see her mother in a way that she was not sure she had ever felt before. Cora's arms soon replaced Matthew's around her body, and she immediately missed the contact. She felt him shift his position to stand, and she clung even more tightly to the piece of his shirt that she was still holding. He looked down to her hand, and he _understood_.

"Oh my darling! How do you feel?"

"A bit sore, but it's tolerable."

"What can you remember?"

"Not much, I'm afraid, although Matthew has been kind enough to fill me in on everything."

"_Everything_?" Cora asked, arching an eyebrow. She didn't want to pry—at least not so soon after having her daughter back—but she was afraid of how Mary would handle the news about Carlisle.

Mary tugged on his sleeve tighter, imploring him without words

"Well, the important parts anyway" was his response.

Before Cora had a chance to ask any more questions, their attention was once again drawn to the door as Anna came to deliver the breakfast tray.

She was distracted as she entered the room—looking at both plates on the tray she carried with disapproval. She was certain that she had told Mrs. Patmore that Lady Grantham preferred the strawberry preserves over the marmalade with her toast, and it wasn't like her to forget such a thing. She made her way over to the small side table anyway, hoping that it would not be an issue. "Good morning, your Ladyship, Mr. Crawley." She did not turn around to address them, which she knew was highly improper, but she was still fussing with the plates. Matthew and Cora greeted her in response, sharing a bemused glance.

A familiar sadness swept over Mary to see Anna looking so weary. Her usually bright and cheerful demeanor had been replaced with something decidedly more morose. She knew that Anna had not actually noticed that she was awake, so she thought she would take the initiative and offer her own greeting.

"Good morning, Anna."

"Good morning, Mila…."

Her response had been automatic—part of her morning routine for as long as she could remember. But then the sound of her voice registered in her ears, and she realized what it meant. She turned so swiftly that the plates she had been so worried about only moments before crashed to the floor, the delicate china splintering on impact.

And she could not have cared any less.


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's Note: Well, all I really have to say here is thank you. Thank you for being so patient with me, and thank you for continuing to read my story. Without all of you reading/reviewing/following/favoriting, I am not sure that I would have had the fortitude to keep this going. My life has been absolutely crazy (in a good way), and finding time to write has been agonizing. But I do hope you find this chapter up to snuff. It was meant to be the last, but I'm not quite done yet. I do hope that you'll hang there for a bit longer :-)_

* * *

Life, when broken down, is nothing more than a series of impacts.

_A shell striking the ground, a spine colliding with a solid object, an illness that sweeps in swiftly leaving only destruction in its wake, a lightning strike that causes a tree to collapse, a helmet careening off a skull from the sheer force of landing, and a tray of delicate china splintering across a floor._

But it's not the impacts we tend to remember—the shock and trauma eventually blend—the memories become fuzzy around the edges. It is the moments after that stand alone.

_The moments that determine success or failure, life or death, damnation or salvation. _

The moments in which we pick up the pieces.

* * *

Anna felt her breath catch in her throat, her eyes darting from the mess on the floor to Mary and then back again.

She felt so exposed, caught between her duty as a housemaid, and her overwhelming desire to throw her arms around her friend. Not knowing whether to clean up the splintered porcelain or to move to Mary's side, she just sort of rocked in place, as if roots had grown from her feet and anchored her to the floor.

"How are you feeling milady? You had us all quite scared" Her voice was strangely high as it escaped from her lips and she barely recognized it as her own. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, knuckles white and strained.

"Not wonderful, I'm afraid. But I've been assured that I've been making an acceptable recovery." She smiled briefly at her maid, hoping to lighten a bit of the tension.

But Anna was clearly crying, despite her very best efforts to remain composed. The tears spilled traitorously from her eyes, leaving glistening trails in their wake. She bit the side of her cheek to stop the sob that rose from her chest; the pain gave her something concrete to focus on. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she pulled a steadying breath in through her nose. The room had become excruciatingly quiet, and she knew it was up to her to break the silence. It took every ounce of strength she had to even endeavor to sound cheerful.

"I'm just so happy to see you well, but I've gone and made this terrible mess!" Her attempt at levity was foiled by the tears that still ran down her cheeks, and the hand that rose to wipe them away.

"Never mind that for now Anna," Cora's voice was hardly steadier than Anna's had been. "How about you go and fetch Carson, tell him to get Robert down here. And let Mrs. Hughes know that Lady Mary is awake, she can tell the rest of the staff."

"Very well, milady."

Anna quickly bobbed her head and turned to leave the room. She was grateful to have a moment to collect herself. Once outside, she pressed her back against the wall to avoid collapsing. Her knees wobbled, despite the additional support. She brought her hand to her mouth to stifle the sound of her crying, which could no longer be held back. She had not admitted to anyone, even to herself, that she had not expected Mary to recover. She hadn't even realized it, really, until she was confronted with it in that very moment. She had been going through the motions for so long, first with Bates and then with Mary, that she seemed to forget how to hope for the best. But, at least in this instance, the best had happened. And she was so happy that it had—so happy to see Mary alive and well—and only a little worse for wear. But she was also so very aware that things could have ended rather differently. She had been living under the cloud of grief for so long that she forgot what it was like to see the sun. She stood up straighter against the wall, slowly pulling herself back together. In one ragged breath, she sought to release all of the sadness she had held within her. Things were going to be okay. _Mary was going to be okay._

She let out a sound that was half a sob, half a chuckle, as a small smile crossed her lips. She let herself feel happy for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Had it really only been eleven days? She mopped the last of the tears from her face with the back of her hand and set off to find Mr. Carson.

_Everything was going to be okay._

* * *

As Robert Crawley emerged from his dressing room, his stride very near to a run, he became aware of an odd sensation coursing through him. It was like the deep, permeating cold that had settled within him was beginning to thaw. He felt like a child left too long to play in the snow, warming his hands in front of the fire place. Each step intensified the feeling. It started in his fingertips—a tingling sensation that made his hands feel heavy and hot. It moved up his arms, flickering like the flame of a candle. It caught in his chest, accelerating his heartbeat to an almost frantic speed. It swept through his core feeling like hunger and sickness and excitement all at once. I settled in his legs, which no longer felt like they were under his control. By the time he felt it in his toes, tingling and tight, he had arrived at her door. His breathing was heavy and he burned all over.

His hand rose slowly to the door. All of the vigor of the journey there seemed to pour out of him as he tentatively turned the knob. He knew he should be excited—thrilled, really—and he was. But he was also scared. Once he opened the door, once he saw her, it would all be real. The nightmare they had all been living in would end, and as much as he couldn't wait for it to be over, some part of him still did not believe that it was true. He had been trying for nearly two weeks to not get his hopes up, and to see her alert and awake—he knew that there would be no going back. He held his breath as he slowly pushed open the door.

She was sitting up in her bed, her mother on one side, Matthew on the other, and she was awake. He could hardly believe his eyes. Her hand held onto Matthew tightly, and her head was resting against her Mother's shoulder. He could see that she had been crying—her eyes still a bit swollen—but to him, she had never looked more radiant. Three pairs of eyes fixated on him as he stood in the doorway, but he could not seem to move. He felt the all too familiar sting of tears filling his eyes, brought on by happiness and shock in equal measure.

_She was going to be okay. _

Mary's eyes met his as he stood in the doorway, and his expression nearly broke her heart. He looked older than she remembered—dark circles hung beneath his eyes, his skin ashen and pale. She was only beginning to understand how bad her circumstances had been, but the look on her father's face told her that it was much worse than she could have imagined. He observed her as if she were a mirage in the desert—like if he blinked she might disappear. For several long moments, they could only look at each other, afraid to upset the fragile stillness that seemed to be holding them all together.

"Oh, Papa…" Mary could no longer take the silence

"Mary, my darling, darling girl!"

He was by her side in an instant, pulling her into an embrace. She leaned into his shoulder as he gently stroked the back of her head, tears flowing freely from them both. From where she sat, Cora gently placed her hand on her husband's, and his eyes rose to meet hers.

There were so many emotions charging the room, and no one quite knew what to feel first. _Happiness, relief, gratitude_…the anxiety was not quite displaced by any of them. Robert tightened one arm around Mary, as he brought the other hand, which held tenderly onto his wife's, to his lips. He drew comfort from the gesture, and hoped that she felt the same. Looking into her eyes again, he saw her lips turn up into a smile. And he let himself feel happy too.

Robert Crawley knew he had a lot to be grateful for in his life, but never before had he been so appreciative of anything.

_Mary, his darling girl, was okay_.

* * *

The rest of the day passed in a dizzying blur of words and faces. Tears were shed, gratitude was expressed, and relief was universal. It was all rather overwhelming. Mary thought fleetingly that if one more person asked how she was feeling, she might feign a coma just so that she could stop answering the same infernal question over and over again. She knew that it was simply the polite thing to ask, but it still drove her mad.

She was feeling so many things, not all of which she knew how to express. Instead of trying to reason all of these emotions out, she simply plied her classic Lady Mary smile and said "Fine, just fine. Thank you".

She had not been surprised by the reactions of most of her family. She was able to discern rather a lot from their behavior towards her. She knew that her mother and father had been beside themselves with worry, their reassuring touches and hesitant smiles barely masking the grief that had tainted their features. She knew that Granny, though she would never admit to it, had been scared for her. She was much, much too quiet and she sat uncharacteristically close to her bedside when she came to visit. Even Carson, her pillar of strength, seemed weakened. He stood near to her bed, his posture rigid, and his face tightly drawn. She knew him well enough to know that propriety reigned supreme in all circumstances, so she reached out her hand to him, encouraging him to take it. He smiled weakly, quickly accepting her proffered hand, holding it tightly between his own. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw him wipe a tear from his cheek as he left her room. She knew that Matthew had neglected himself during the whole ordeal—his normally neat appearance was rather unkempt, and his usually sparkling blue eyes appeared just a bit duller. Despite all of the visitors coming and going, he had yet to leave the room. He moved to a chair in the corner to keep out of the way, a book in his lap to keep him occupied, but he never left.

None of these things had surprised her. What did, however, was when Edith burst into the room, an almost manic look on her face as she practically threw herself into her sister's arms. Their relationship had certainly improved since the start of the war—the vitriol between them requiring far too much energy to maintain when they had real problems to deal with. But she couldn't stop her eyebrows from rising just a bit at the curious display of emotion. She tried to remember the last time that she and her sister had embraced each other, and her memory remained blank. So she tightened her arms around her, and soothed her as her tears fell. Her eyes shut tightly as she tried to memorize the feeling of her younger sister in her arms. Perhaps it was time for them to make new memories.

She was also surprised when, sometime later, Isobel arrived to see her. She said nothing as she entered the room and sat down next to Mary on the edge of her bed. She brought her hand up to gently cup her face, her thumb brushing against Mary's cheek. Though she was rather surprised by the tender gesture, she leaned into Isobel's hand, and smiled what was perhaps her first genuine smile of the day. Isobel moved her hand up from her cheek, brushing a piece of hair off her forehead to examine her stitches.

"This cut," she said as she delicately smoothed a finger over it, "is healing marvelously. We'll be able to take the stitches out as soon as you're feeling up to it; perhaps tomorrow, after you've seen Doctor Phillips".

"Doctor Phillips? What happened to Clarkson?"

"Clarkson is a fine country doctor, but I'm afraid he has not shown his mettle when it comes to more traumatic injuries. He didn't give any of us much hope that you would recover…" she hesitated, glancing over her shoulder towards her son, who appeared to be captivated by his book. She lowered her voice and continued "and Matthew insisted on a second opinion. He was rather adamant, after his own misdiagnosis, of course. Phillips is a neurosurgeon from London. I was able to use some of my husband's old contacts to get in touch with him, and he agreed to come here to treat you. He's brilliant, naturally, and painted a much brighter picture of your future." She smiled brightly at Mary.

Mary's eyes glanced over to Matthew before they returned to Isobel. She sat up a bit higher and leaned in to bring Isobel into an embrace. Moved moved her head from her shoulder and whispered into her ear "thank you for taking such good care of me." Isobel held her a bit tighter, "you're quite welcome my dear, but I had plenty of help." She pulled back and gave her a meaningful look. It was not hard for Mary to discern her meaning.

* * *

The day had been emotional and exhausting for everyone, particularly Mary, but now that she could relax she found that she was rather restless. Her muscles ached and she longed to be able to stand up and move about. But she had promised her mother that she would not get up until she was seen by the doctor, so instead she settled for the flexing of her feet and toes, which she could manage from the safety of her bed. The sling dug awkwardly into her neck, leaving a red indent in her pale skin. It was rather itchy, and she wished that she could just remove it. But again, she had been told to wait for the doctor's approval.

Mary and Matthew had not had a chance to talk since she had awoken that morning. While he was never far away during the day, they couldn't seem to get a moment alone. As visitors mulled in and out, their eyes had met over and over again, wishing to convey the words that they were not able to say. He didn't want to leave, and she didn't want him to go.

She looked over to the chair in the corner of the room where he had been sleeping for the past hour. He told her that he was going to simply rest his eyes while she had some supper. It wasn't more than two minutes after Anna had brought her tray that she could tell he was completely asleep. He had looked so peaceful that she decided not to disturb him.

But after an hour she found that while she very much enjoyed looking at him, she desperately wanted to talk to him—to hear his voice. She couldn't help but smile at the way his hair had flopped over on his forehead, and the way his cheek looked pressed into the palm of his hand for support. She couldn't be certain, but she got the feeling that tonight was not the first time that Matthew had fallen asleep in that very chair. It warmed her to think that he had stayed by her side, like she had done for him so many years ago. She thought of the kiss they shared that morning—the sensation as well as the implications of it—and she realized that she would very much like to repeat the experience. Of all the things that she was still unsure of, Matthew was not one of them. And now she was free to express those feelings. She supposed that she should at least pretend to be upset about her broken engagement, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. It was, perhaps, the brightest spot of the whole ordeal. A clean break. A chance to start anew. And she didn't want to wait any longer.

"Matthew," she called his name softly, to no avail. The second time, she spoke a bit louder and he began to stir. On the third call, his eyes snapped open, and he rushed to her side.

"Mary, darling, are you alright? What's the matter?!"

She felt a faint blush color her cheeks at the endearment

He still looked rather panicked, so she reached out and took his hand into hers.

"Nothing's the matter. Not really anyway. The thing is…" she looked at him earnestly, suddenly feeling embarrassed for what she wished to ask. He squeezed her hand, encouraging her to continue. "The thing is that I'm having a rather difficult time falling asleep, and I was wondering…if perhaps you might read to me?"

He smiled brightly and leaned down to kiss her forehead.

"Nothing would make me happier. What are you in the mood for?"

"Anything, really. I'd just like to hear your voice."

It was his turn to blush now, and he squeezed her hand a little bit tighter.

"I've got just the thing."

He moved back over to the corner to retrieve the chair and the book. He set the chair down as close to her as he could get and settled in. It was the same book that he had been reading to her the previous night—when she seemed a million miles away, and hope was slipping through his fingers—but then her head had turned. He did not believe it was a coincidence.

As he began to read, a smile of recognition crossed Mary's face. _Perseus and Andromeda_, of course. God, what a fool she had been back then! To liken poor Matthew to a sea monster, when he was so clearly the hero of her story.

Within a few minutes of reading, Matthew glanced down to see that Mary had fallen asleep. For a moment, he felt a strange sense of panic. What if she wouldn't wake up again? He couldn't stand the thought. He knew it was irrational, but he had to be absolutely sure that she was only sleeping, and not unconscious. He leaned over and gingerly placed a kiss on her lips. He then moved to her cheek, the tip of her nose, and both of her eyelids. Trailing gentle kisses and whispering her name along the way. She moved a bit, sighing gently from his ministrations. When his lips returned to hers, she kissed him back with equal vigor. He left his lips to linger a bit longer, smiling when he felt her do the same. One of her hands gently ran through his hair, and he thought that he might die from happiness.

She was the first to pull back from the kiss, her eyes remaining shut as she whispered "goodnight, darling" and settled deeper into her covers.

From his chair, he leaned over to rest his head and arms on her bed. Just as he got settled, Mary rolled over, placing a hand on his shoulder. If his position was uncomfortable, he was utterly unaware of it. "Goodnight, Mary."

He fell asleep with a smile on his face.


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's Note: Well readers, it seems that we have finally come to the conclusion. I can't thank you all enough for reading/reviewing/enjoying this story. I was absolutely terrified to start something like this, and I would not have been able to keep it up without your support. And even though it is the last chapter, I would still love to know your thoughts! _

_Without further ado..._

* * *

Transformation occurs without invitation. Sweeping in like the tide, it can catch even the most fastidious people off guard.

Alteration is the design. Whether it is sudden, like the fury of a flame, or languorous like the changing of seasons, there is often very little we can do to stop it. _Grief, fear, longing, hope, relief_… all of them leave their mark. They press upon us, and like pieces of clay we mold to the pressure. Sharp edges soften, lines blur and fade, and things that once seemed indelible are wiped clean. Sharp pains become dull aches, aches become memories, and life begins again.

But things are never quite the same.

What was once easy can become challenging, and what once seemed impossible can become second nature. Those that adapt flourish, while those that do not flounder.

Resistance is futile. Like trying to hold a spring coiled tightly, or holding your breath until it feels like your lungs may actually burst, it eventually becomes too much to bear.

And so, we relent. We let in the _grief_, and the _fear_, and the _hope_, and learn from it as much as we can. And then we move on.

In a world where change is the only constant, one rarely faces down the truths of existence and walks away unaffected.

* * *

With Mary awake, the slow agony of days that felt like years came to an end. Time, as it is apt to do, began to move rather swiftly. Every day brought them a little bit farther away from the chaos and uncertainty of the accident, but its effects were still felt—still wrapped around them like an invisible thread—catching and pulling when least expected. It had changed them—_all of them_—and they were still walking with shaky legs.

Even though everything had turned out to be alright, the knowledge that it just as easily might not have was inescapable. It informed all decisions, and pervaded all actions.

Conversations were careful, each word measured as if it might tip the scales. Embraces were held a bit longer than strictly proper, with arms tighter than ever before. Glances lingered and were held like lifelines, expressing what words alone never could.

Mary greatly appreciated the concern everyone showed for her, but she also found the attention to be exhausting. She felt as if she was living the life of a porcelain doll—looked at and admired, but never taken off the shelf—too delicate for any real purpose.

Deep down, she understood their unease, but she was growing increasingly tired of her entire family meddling in her everyday affairs. It was becoming increasingly difficult to accept their interference with grace, rather than lashing out like she might have done before the accident.

She had been awake and alert for nearly three weeks, but had yet to remember the accident or the days after; the doctor said that there was a very good chance she never would. In all other regards, her memory and cognition seemed to be unimpaired. Her stitches were long removed; the only trace of the gash on her forehead now a faded pink line. She no longer needed the sling for her arm, and only the faintest remnants of her worst bruises remained visible; dull yellow against pale white. Dr. Phillips had cleared her from bed rest, and yet everyone still seemed to insist on her remaining as stationary as possible.

The only one who seemed to understand even a little of what she was feeling was Matthew. Of course he wasn't perfect—he too hovered a bit much for her liking, and was worried over the simplest things. But he also stood up for her when he knew she was capable, and assisted her without hesitation when she was not. Where the others seemed patronizing or glib, he was stable and steadfast. She appreciated it more than she was able to say, and often found herself expressing her gratitude in ways that did not require any words. It had started with simple gestures—a small caress, a hand held under the table, a lingering kiss on the cheek—but before long kisses moved from cheeks to lips, and hands held turned into passionate embraces in vacant rooms.

Despite these intimacies, Matthew and Mary had yet to put words to their new standing. He seemed hesitant to move forward before she was ready, and she wanted to be absolutely sure he wasn't tending to her as a way of assuaging some unfounded guilt. After so many years of turmoil and near misses, they did not want to take anything for granted. The simmering tension of their relationship before the accident—always threatening to boil over—had been replaced by something very different. There was a certainty between them now—a sound sureness that superseded the hesitance and innuendo that they had used to test each other and their boundaries. It was a connection that existed without defined terms and conditions.

When one of them would say "I love you", the other would say it back.

And they _truly _meant it. For the time being, that was enough.

* * *

Days soon became weeks and everyone continued working to adapt to their new world. Before they knew it, Winter's chill had permeated the air, and the holidays were upon them again.

Much to Mary's delight, the season seemed to be diverting the family's attention away from her. It was a tremendous relief to be able to sleep in again and not be woken by someone in a panic, or to be able to sneeze without someone threatening to call the doctor.

Robert had surprised everyone by inviting Sybil and Tom to Downton for Christmas, and the house was being busily prepped for their arrival.

Although the circumstances were rather terrible, Mary was glad for her father's change of heart. He was far from perfect, and while she sometimes questioned his methods, she knew that he loved his family. Lost in her thoughts on the matter, she nearly walked into him as she made her way down the staircase into the great hall.

She studied his face for a moment, relieved to see him looking so well.

"Where are you off to my dear? You look caught in a dream." he smiled at her cheerfully

"Oh, I think I just need a bit of fresh air. I was going to go to the stables; I…"

"Absolutely not!" he shouted, before she had a chance to finish the thought.

_Before_, Mary would have been absolutely indignant about such a reaction. But the look of panic on her father's face—mouth slightly open, eyes wide and glistening—spoke louder than his words, and she moved to place her hand gently on his shoulder.

_Before_, she would have felt no need to justify her decisions to anyone. But she knew that his reaction was less about control and more about unrestrained fear for her safety.

"Not to ride, Papa. Just to spend a bit of time with Diamond. I don't want him to think that I've forgotten about him." She looked up at him earnestly, but, ashamed from his outburst, he wouldn't meet her eyes.

He covered her hand on his shoulder with one of his own, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He leaned in to kiss her cheek before finally returning her gaze.

"Of course, my darling. That sounds like a wonderful idea. I am afraid the poor chap must be feeling a bit neglected." He smiled at her, but it was thin and drawn, and did little to disguise the worry that still darkened his features. She briefly wondered if that look would every truly go away.

"Perhaps you'd like to come with me? I wouldn't mind the company, if you're not too busy."

"I would be delighted." He smiled at her again, only this time she could see the light shining through in his expression. Perhaps time really would heal all wounds.

* * *

In spite of all the buildup and preparation, Christmas was a comparatively subdued affair to the previous years. There were no lavish parties or posh guests; just the family gathered together for a small but meaningful celebration.

Dinner was served, and gifts were exchanged, and everyone was glad that they could all be together. It was the happiest they had been in a long time; the holiday season seemed to be a balm on those feeling that had not yet been healed.

The day of the Servant's Ball was much the same. Spirits were high, and there seemed to be a lightness to the air.

For her part, Mary could not recall a time in recent memory when she had felt happier or more at ease. She was not engaged to a loathsome man, and she no longer had an insidious secret hanging over her head, threatening to destroy her family and her reputation. And of course, she had Matthew. While he had not made anything official, his intentions seemed perfectly clear. As Anna dressed her for the evening, she couldn't keep the smile off of her face.

The party was lovely—the joy in the room almost palpable—and Mary was thrilled that her family finally seemed to be at peace. But she also found herself feeling rather overwhelmed by it all. It was such a happy time, but she couldn't help but think of all of the alternatives—the what if's and might have been's. How different the night would have been had the accident not occurred, or even worse, if she had not survived. Suddenly all of the joy in the room felt rather stifling, and she needed to get away. It was odd to feel so happy and simultaneously melancholy, and she thought some fresh evening air might perk up her spirits.

As she stepped out into the night, she was only vaguely aware of the bitter cold that surrounded her. Warmed by the merriment of the evening as much as the glasses of brandy served without moderation after dinner, the delicate flakes of snow falling around her immediately seemed to heighten her mood. She drew in long, cleansing breaths of the frosty air, the silent minutes giving her time to reflect.

As she stared out into the darkness, she sensed that she was no longer alone. Turning, she found Matthew observing her from the open doorway. Saying nothing, she extended her hand to him and he stepped out into the snow to join her. His bare fingers happily laced with her gloved ones, as he took his place by her side.

They stood in comfortable silence for several minutes, observing the snow as it fell around them, as well as the clouds made by the warmth of their breath. It was so beautiful that it almost seemed surreal.

Mary had always loved winter. The way the snow fell and covered over everything, blanketing the world with its glistening purity, made her feel more hopeful than anything else. It was like everything got a fresh start—what was once ugly or marred could become utterly beautiful when dusted with flakes of snow. She often wondered if it could have the same effect on people, which was one of the thoughts that had led her from the warmth of the party out into the night. She knew what he had said—that none of it mattered—but he still hadn't asked for her hand, and in her more frantic moments, she was beginning to worry that he never would. Perhaps the snow could cover it all up; take away her shame and paint her in a new light. But then he joined her, and he took her hand, and she knew that it was ridiculous. He _loved_ her, despite it all. She drew in a deep breath, and leaned a bit closer to him, so that her shoulder lightly bumped into his.

"I never did thank you properly…for saving me" she felt inexplicably nervous, and her gaze moved to the ground.

Matthew sensed the shift in her mood, and moved to take both of her hands in his. "Mary, my darling, it was you who saved me. _In every way that matters_." He felt her hands squeeze his a bit tighter.

"Perhaps we're not cursed after all" her tone was tentative, almost questioning, and as she brought her eyes to meet his that same thin, tight smile crossed her lips.

"God, _Mary_. I don't think you'll ever know just how sorry I am…"

She cut him off quickly with a kiss, gently placing her palm to his cheek. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. If he couldn't _tell _her how sorry he was, he would show her. He deepened the kiss, and held her tightly to him. When they finally pulled away, both were panting for breath, their exhalations creating a fog around them.

Her hand moved from his cheek to the lapel of his coat, and she could feel his heart beating wildly.

"We both have plenty to be sorry about, my dear. But perhaps we can agree to forgive and forget?"

She pulled back slightly from their embrace to look more fully into his eyes.

"Mary, surely you must see…I don't believe you _need_ my forgiveness." He drew in a deep breath; a small smile lighting up his face. "You've lived your life and I've lived mine, and now it's time we live them together."

"Do you really mean that? Truly, because if you don't I would understand. I…Matthew I don't think I could bear it if you're not really sure."

In all of the years he had known her, he had never seen her look so vulnerable

"Of course I'm sure, darling! I've never been surer of anything in my life."

His smile, so bright and earnest, was contagious, and she couldn't stop the happy sob that rose from her chest.

"I won't answer unless you ask me properly. Down on one knee and everything." Her eyebrows quirked up as she waited for his response.

His eyes met hers as he lowered down to the ground, reaching out for one of her hands.

"Lady Mary Crawley, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

There was nothing she could say but "Yes."

* * *

Before she knew what was happening, she was in his arms and her feet were off the ground, and then his lips found hers and everything was as it should be—as it should have been for years, really.

Neither of them were keeping track of how long they had been outside, but the cold air had thoroughly chilled them through by the time the decided to return to the house. The fire was still lit, but the room was empty, and the house seemed to be completely quiet.

Matthew glanced to the clock on the mantel piece, noting that it was well after midnight.

He watched Mary as she stood in front of the fire, holding her hands closer to the flames. Her cheeks were flushed a rosy pink from the cold, and he thought that she had never looked more lovely. He moved to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"My darling, how am I to leave you now? Being away from you seems preposterous." She turned in his arms, her forehead pressing against his, the closeness heating them just as much as any fire could.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find a way." He knew from the tone of her voice that she was smiling, and lifted his head to look into her eyes.

"You would tease me at a time like this? When I've literally swept you off your feet like some sentimental hero in a damned Austen novel? You have quite the nerve!"

He began to walk away from her in mock indignation, but she quickly grabbed his sleeve to pull him back.

He started to chuckle as she drew him back towards her, but when he looked to her face again, he saw that her expression was serious. She pulled him until there was no space between them, bringing their lips together for a passionate kiss. There was something almost frantic about it, and they broke apart panting for air, arms still holding each other tightly.

"It seems I don't want you to leave any more than you want to go."

"But go I must." He held her tighter to his chest, delaying their inevitable separation for as long as he could.

"Yes, I suppose you must." But she nestled even further into his arms, smiling as she felt him kiss the top of her head.

They stayed like that for several moments, content simply to be in each other's arms, before he broke their embrace. Stepping back, he took hold of both of her hands.

"Well my love, I suppose this is goodnight."

The words seemed to trigger something within her memory, and she smiled as she leaned in towards him. She pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, before her lips drifted towards his ear.

"Goodnight my darling. I have to leave you now, but it won't be for long. I hope that you sleep peacefully, and that you dream of getting stronger. I'll be thinking of you every moment we're apart. I love you _so terribly much_."

Hearing his words repeated back to him, the words that he had whispered to her every night during the ordeal, brought tears to his eyes. He fought to contain them, blinking hard to suppress their stream, to no avail.

"You…you remember that, then?" his voice was shaking, and he looked at her so earnestly that it almost broke her heart.

"Only just now, darling. When you said goodnight, it came back to me" She stroked his cheek with her palm and he leaned into the caress.

"God, Mary. Leaving you every night was the hardest thing I've ever done. Not knowing if you were alright, not knowing if you were going to wake up or not…it was torture." He was breathing heavily, practically gasping out each word. "I thought that if I wasn't there, and you did wake up, that you would be frightened and confused. Even though I was just down the hall, it felt too far from you."

"Oh my darling" tears were now building in her eyes as well "you did everything right. I know that I can't remember it all, but the moment I woke up I knew. I knew because…I had been in your position. Matthew, I know the agony that you felt because I felt it for you. I couldn't tell you then, but surely you must know now that I felt the same way. Leaving you in the hospital felt like ripping myself in half and leaving a part behind. Even then, even when we could not be together I still felt it."

With tear stained faces and ragged breaths they held on to each other until the fire withered to embers and their breathing returned to a steady pace. And even then, they did not let go.

They found salvation in each other's embrace, and leaving was no longer a thought that crossed their minds.

**THE END. **

* * *

_Thank you again for reading my story. I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate it. And a special thank you to La Donna Ingenua, without you I would have never had the courage to actually publish my work! _


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